Trance
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: A piece written for the 1960 movie "The Apartment." Being plagued by what has happened is awful. Being plagued by what never happened is worse.


"_Falling, yes I am falling…"—"I've Just Seen a Face" by John Lennon and Paul McCartney_

Yes. She's falling.

She doesn't know whether it's off a cliff or from an airplane or just on the sidewalk. All she knows is that she's falling.

And Jeff pushed her.

She's never seen his eyes like that, flaming, pupils dilated. There's anger contained within.

Anger, and a wisp of hate.

"_I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things."__—__Antoine de Saint-Exupery_

It takes forever for her to hit solid ground, but when she does she realizes she'd rather fall, airborne, unsure of where she'll land than be bound here by fate's shackles, not visible but stronger than titanium.

"_Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict."—Jim Morrison_

Her face is wet, and she wishes tears were the cause. But no. It's blood.

Truth be told, she can't weep anymore.

Her thoughts drift to Jeff, and her head throbs, mind turning bitter. Yes, she would rather be alone than in unpleasant company.

Even if she loves him…

She coughs raggedly, each time tasting metal, feeling her lungs stabbed at more and more, bringing new tears to her closed eyes, tears she doesn't dare release.

She wants to cry out, but she can't.

Someone might hear her.

"_Cold! If the thermometer had been an inch longer we'd have __frozen__ to death.__"—Mark Twain_

Dark falls, and she's still a miserable, sanguinary mess, hair and clothes adhered to her skin by sweat and dried blood, in more pain than she ever imagined possible. She's cold, very cold, and goose bumps offer little protection against the harsh wind.

It's tempting to pull one of her garments off a bloody spot and let the vital fluid flow; she's desperate for the warmth.

But there's no way she can do it.

She's too afraid of the split second of pain. _  
_

"_Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion.__"—Joseph Conrad_

She'd never admit to anyone she's scared, lonely; a hope, fluttering within her that she'll be found, and yet, at the same time dreading that such an occurrence might take place.

The office party is all she can think of—a distant yet clear memory. Miss Olsen, tipsy and eager to share distressing news: ring-a-ding-ding. Someone's voice sounds in her ear:

"_You alright, what's the matter?"_

The words repeat themselves harshly, drumming inside her head until she can't stand it anymore and finally responds.

"No. I'm not okay."

"_A bleeding heart is of no help to anyone if it bleeds to death."—Frederick Buechner_

She doesn't quite know whether she's asleep or awake when she hears them—masculine voices speaking quietly in the distance. They grow nearer, but she still can't hear what they say.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, quietly strong.

"Miss Kubelik?"

She can't see who it is; he's enclosed in shadows. The voice is familiar—it's one of Jeff's executives—but name-wise she can't place it.

The one hand soon becomes two, and she feels herself being lifted, carried bridal style, and the Voice keeps speaking.

"Don't worry Miss Kubelik. Doc says you haven't lost too much blood. You'll be alright, I promise."

His words are soothing, but she silently wonders about the truth behind them.

"_Home, where my thoughts escaping, home, where my music's playing, home, where my love lies waiting silently for me."—"Homeward Bound" by Paul Simon_

The pain's gone. She feels numb and fuzzy now, but not unpleasantly so; no pins and needles, no chills.

Her thoughts, too, have turned from cynical to almost enjoyable, and the silver lining seems to stand out more brightly everywhere she looks.

Soft notes of a melody mingle together, lingering in the air long after the needle has passed that point on the record.

She smiles, telling herself Jeff must have arranged this, until she remembers what he did. A single tear escapes her eye.

And for once she doesn't care if her mascara runs.

"_Dreams are like stars...you may never touch them, but if you follow them they will lead you to your destiny.__"—Anonymous_

Her eyes flutter open, dark butterfly wings against her pallor. The room is dark, and a glance at the clock reveals it to be 4:07.

In the morning, surely…

The air seems empty; no music plays at all.

Putting a hand her aching head, she finds it—strangely—to be perfectly free of blood. Her senses aren't blotted out by numbness. In fact there's no gory evidence of her fall; her slip and hair flow loose, not hardened by anything. She can't find a single patch of dried blood or even a scab.

A dream, then? Was that all it was?

But what concerns her more than that is that she doesn't know where she is; not in her own bed, she is sure of that, but, if not, then where?

Her eyes drift to her right, and she sees a man, almost ghostly, leaning back in his chair, asleep.

And she recognizes him.

For a moment she's gripped with terror. But then she sees him breathe, and she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Why, Mr. Baxter," she whispers, struggling to sit up. She's dizzy. "You know you're going to get a horrible crick in your neck sleeping like that. Here, let me help you." She slides out of the bed, regardless of the reeling and terrible pain in her head.

Plucking her—or rather, _the_—pillow, she precariously places it behind his head. He doesn't even stir.

Before climbing back into bed, she taps him on the nose. "Tomorrow, Mr. Baxter, I'll expect a full…" she nearly loses her balance and the wind is knocked out of her for a moment, "explanation…" she finishes in a whisper.

Grasping for the edge of the mattress, she pulls herself up and huddles under the covers.

She knows she isn't well.

And she can only hope and dream she'll live to hear C.C. Baxter explain himself.


End file.
